Blank Canvas
by Flaignhan
Summary: For one small iota of time, she knew exactly who she was.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** New fic. If you're unsure just go with it. This one is a challenge, and as such should hopefully be one of my better multichapters? Finally started posting because I need to overcome the block I've got with it, and piling on the pressure is a good way to do that. (Plus I have a week off work, so you know, gonna use my time well.) Anywho, enjoy! And let me know what you think. =]

* * *

**Blank Canvas.**

**by Flaignhan.**

* * *

"What happened?"

"I don't know."

"What's your name?"

"I don't know."

"Where does it hurt?"

"I don't know."

* * *

"We'll be moving you to Hogwarts in due course." The man from the Ministry shuffles his papers and places them neatly on the bedside cabinet. "You know Hogwarts, I trust?"

"Hogwarts…" she says softly. "Yes, I know Hogwarts."

"Good," the man says, frowning slightly. Perhaps her behaviour unsettles him. She doesn't much care if it does. He has no right to be unsettled when she's the one that can't even remember her own name.

"Yes," she replies in that same dreamy tone. "Good."

"And how are you feeling? Better?"

She looks around the room, as though the answer might be written on the drab, off-white walls. Her slender hand finds its way to her chest, which is not so tender now, after these long days of bed rest and potions. "A little better," she says, addressing the blank gaze of her visitor. He picks up his papers and a quill, and scribbles a quick note on the topmost sheaf of parchment.

"And your…memories?" He doesn't look at her. Perhaps he fears indelicacy.

"Non-existent," she replies. A sad smile graces her lips, but it is fleeting. She has had enough of him for today.

"Terrible shame," he says. "Terrible." He continues writing, shaking his head slowly, while she watches. She takes in every detail of him: the odd way he holds his quill, with two fingers and a thumb; the small specks of shaving foam caught in the edges of his bushy grey sideburns; the way his glasses somehow cling to the very tip of his nose but never fall off; the small grey hairs sprouting from his ears and nostrils, signalling the imminence of his pension.

He taps the parchment with his wand and it rolls up, sealing itself, and then finds a comfortable space to rest in his open briefcase.

"Well Clara," he says, holding out his hand. She looks at it for a good few seconds before reaching out and shaking it. "That's everything for today. Professor Dumbledore will be coming to collect you himself, later in the week. He'll make sure you settle into Hogwarts nicely. With any luck you'll get to spend Christmas there, instead of this miserable old ward."

"Yes," she says. "Hopefully."

"Clara," he says, quietly but firmly, his tone clearly requesting that she concentrate. "The most important thing to hang onto is your name. Clara Dewhurst."

"But that's not my name."

"It is from now. If you ever remember your real name, come back to us, and we'll amend the situation, all right?"

"Clara _Dewhurst…_"

"That's it. Very pretty name it is too."

She frowns, but says nothing.

"I'll be on my way then." He stands, pulls his cloak on and picks up his briefcase.

"Thank you for all your help, Mr…"

"Buckfield," he tells her. "Mr Buckfield."

"Thank you Mr Buckfield."

* * *

Clara, as she is still not quite accustomed to being called, spends the following three days being fussed over by kindly nurses, one of whom sneaks her a large bar of Honeyduke's Best, 'seeing as it's Christmas'.

Healer Raybould is less endearing.

"What happened to me?" Clara asks for the umpteenth time.

"You had an accident," he answers curtly, also for the umpteenth time.

"What kind of accident?"

"We don't know."

"How can you treat me if you don't know?"

"If somebody breaks their arm we don't need to know how they broke it. We just need to know that it's broken, and then we can fix it."

Clara folds her arms and watches as he makes various notes on his clipboard.

"You'd best get dressed," Raybould tells her. "Professor Dumbledore will be coming to collect you this afternoon."

"Where are my clothes?"

"I'll tell the nurse to fetch you some."

"No, I mean _my_ clothes. I must have been wearing some when I had my _accident_."

Healer Raybould glances up at her and stares for a few moments. "They were ruined. The Ministry disposed of them."

"They had no right to do that," Clara says, her lower lip trembling with anger. The only things that were hers, _truly_ hers, are now destroyed.

"Take it up with them. It's nothing to do with us."

Clara huffs as Healer Raybould leaves the room. Minutes later, the red-headed motherly nurse bustles in with a set of clean clothes. When Clara looks at her outfit in the mirror, she doesn't like what she sees. She stares quietly at her reflection, her heart heavy in her still fragile chest.

"I can change the colour if you like, dear?"

Clara picks at a loose thread from her calf length grey skirt and skews her lips. "I don't think that will help too much."

"Well I think you look lovely. Very grown up."

"I look _old_," Clara murmurs.

There is a knock at the door and Clara turns to see a man with a long auburn coloured beard and bright blue eyes, half hidden behind a pair of spectacles. He is sporting a set of elaborate indigo robes, and steps over the threshold and into the room.

"Clara, I believe?" he says cheerfully.

She nods. "So I'm told, anyway."

The man's eyes glitter with amusement. "I'm Professor Dumbledore. I teach at Hogwarts."

"Yes, Mr Buckfield said."

"Ah," Dumbledore replies. "Those Ministry fellows, always a few steps ahead of the rest of us." He smiles, and Clara feels less bothered about her frumpy outfit now. After days of confinement and loneliness, she at last feels her heart lift, if only a little. Things might be all right after all.

"Are you ready to go?" he asks.

"Yes," Clara says firmly. "Can I have my wand back now as well?"

"I have it here for you. I've just been to the Ministry to collect it." He reaches into his robes and takes the wand from an inside pocket, then hands it to Clara. Warmth spreads through her hand and up her arm when she takes it, and the distant, elusive memory of herself, of her _true_ self, feels closer than it has since she first opened her eyes a week ago.

"_Priori Incantatem_," she whispers. A puff of grey smoke issues from her wand tip, but no previous spell is illustrated.

Professor Dumbledore's eyebrows contort into a frown.

"They've wiped it," Clara says, then turns to look at Dumbledore. "Why would they do that?"

Dumbledore clears his throat. "I'm sure there's a very reasonable explanation…"

As they depart the ward, the troubled expression still sitting on Dumbledore's features suggests to Clara that he doesn't believe that any more than she does.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** So I've had a lovely response to the first chapter. Glad you all seem to be enjoying it so far. Here's chapter two. Not too sure about when three will be posted - I'm at the stage where I'm writing all my favourite scenes so the beginning's getting little neglected. It shouldn't be too long anyway. I have a 3 hour train journey tomorrow so I'll try and crack it out then, providing there's not some idiot girl behind me whining about her boyfriend's lack of spiritual growth. Anyway, hope you enjoy this. Let me know what you think! =]

* * *

**Blank Canvas**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

Tom, she discovers, is the only student left at Hogwarts over the Christmas holidays. He's an orphan, and he'd much rather stay in the castle than go back to the orphanage in London where he was raised. Clara can't blame him. From what she's heard, (which is, admittedly, very little) it sounds like a dreadful place to grow up.

She grows to like Tom very quickly. There is something about his manner, his quiet, polite tone that makes her feel less lonely during what she imagines is the most difficult experience of her life. Granted she has no other memories, but nothing could be worse than this, surely?

She likes it when Tom watches her, those grey eyes of his taking in every detail of her. He's like that, a good watcher – and he watches her a lot. It makes her insides squirm, and after much to-ing and fro-ing in her head over the matter, she decides that the knots her intestines tie themselves into are pleasant knots, as opposed to _un_pleasant knots.

"Are you going to tell the others?" Tom asks. "When they come back to school?"

Clara frowns and considers her answer. She swirls her pumpkin juice around in her goblet and doesn't meet Tom's eye.

"I don't know that it's any of their business," she says at last. "And I'm not sure the Ministry would like it if the whole school knew that I'm…" She's not sure how to finish the sentence, and so she trails off into silence.

"You told me," Tom says, his voice soft and low. She loves his voice. There's something in it, some hidden quality that invites trust. Or maybe it's his face that does that. He's handsome, but he lacks the awareness of the fact that usually leads to unbearable arrogance.

"Of course I told you," Clara says. Again, she does not look at him. She can feel the heat rising in her cheeks, and she lets her hair fall in front of her face, shielding her from view. "You're my friend."

Tom says nothing for a moment. Clara looks up at him to see the corners of his lips slightly curved in the smallest of smiles.

"We'll keep it our little secret then, shall we?"

Clara smiles and nods. From the staff table, Dumbledore watches.

* * *

For reasons she is unable to grasp, Clara does not get lost on her way to the Headmaster's office, despite having no recollection of going there ever before. The password, as Dumbledore wrote in his letter, is 'Babbitty Rabbitty'. When she says it aloud, the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance slides out of her way obediently, revealing an impressive spiral staircase.

As she nears the top, she can hear voices. Loud voices. There is some kind of heated argument taking place in the office, and Clara is unsure whether she ought to knock, or wait for the shouting to subside.

"Who sanctioned this?" Dumbledore's voice booms in a way that Clara had not thought possible. "Who led you to believe that you had the right to go anywhere near -"

"With all due respect, Professor," a familiar voice interrupts. There is a slight droning quality to it, but Clara is concentrating too hard on the words spoken, to care too much about the identity of the speaker. "We had to protect our own interests."

"And what reasonable evidence do you have that your interests were threatened?"

"We were simply following procedure -"

"_Procedure?_ How can you have a procedure for something like this?"

"Albus, calm _down_."

"You take his side, Armando? You agree with the Ministry's actions?"

"You _know_ I don't, Albus, but what's done is done."

"But what chance has she now of a return?"

"There was never any chance of that, Dumbledore."

"Forgive me, Eric, I was unaware of the one way ticket scheme that was in operation. My mistake."

"Albus, be _reasonable_."

More confused than ever, Clara knocks on the heavy oak door. The voices fall silent, and, after a moment, the door swings open. Clara looks up to see Professor Dumbledore's usually twinkling eyes burning with fury. Witnessing the gaze is bad enough. She does _not _want to find out what it's like to be the cause of such anger.

There is a small man sat behind a solid wooden desk, who she assumes is Headmaster Dippet. Aside from Dumbledore, there is one other man in the room, who Clara recognises as the briefcase carrying Ministry man who she encountered at St Mungo's.

"Ah, Clara my dear, a pleasure to meet you at last. You've met Professor Dumbledore, of course," Dippet gestures towards Dumbledore, who is still regarding the Ministry man with icy coldness. "And this is Mr…"

"Auden," the Ministry man finishes for Dippet, whose eyes are darting between Auden and Dumbledore, as though waiting for something to set them off again.

"Auden, I believe we're quite finished here," Dumbledore says, drawing up a squashy chintz armchair with his wand and offering it to Clara. She sits down, and Dippet pushes a small dish of boiled sweets towards her, apparently desperate for even the smallest distraction from the tension in the room.

"Don't you think I'd better stay for this meeting?" Auden asks, a slight tremor in his nasally voice. "After all -"

"None of our discussions today will require your input," Dumbledore says firmly. "These are matters of an academic nature."

Auden glances towards Dippet, looking for support, but Dippet is far too busy twiddling his thumbs and admiring the portraits. Realising his defeat, Auden picks up his briefcase and leaves the office without another word. Dumbledore closes the door and takes a seat next to Clara. Dippet stares at him for a long moment, then sighs heavily with exasperation.

"You think me too harsh?"

"I think you underestimate how intimidating you can be."

"Never without good cause."

"True," Dippet agrees, moving sheaves of parchment about his desk aimlessly. "Very true." Finally, he looks up at Clara. "I _am_ sorry my dear, things can sometimes get a little…strained with the Ministry."

"Mr Auden is a terrible liar," Clara tells them. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Dumbledore's eyebrow arch with interest. "I have no memories, so there's lots of space in my head for new ones. And I can recall the new ones perfectly."

"Well that's excellent news my dear!" Dippet cries happily, "We were _rather _concerned about any potential lasting effects on your mind."

"Go on, Clara," Dumbledore says encouragingly, paying no notice of Dippet.

"I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that when Mr Auden visited me in St Mungo's, he went by the name of Buckfield."

Dumbledore's lips twitch a little, but he remains silent, while Dippet simply looks tired.

"If you're going to lie about your name," Clara continues, "You need an element of consistency. You have to make sure you tell the same people the same name, otherwise you're just an idiot."

Dumbledore is now smiling triumphantly, and he turns his gaze towards Dippet, who lets out a sigh.

"Ravenclaw I imagine," Dippet says, and Dumbledore tilts his head in agreement. "Or perhaps Slytherin. Very shrewd."

Dumbledore's expression falters. "Perhaps we ought to let the sorting hat choose?"

"Please, Professors," Clara interrupts. "I'd…I'd quite like to stay with Tom. We've become rather good friends you see and…well…I shouldn't like to be alone."

"You can still be friends," Dumbledore says stiffly. "And being sorted into a different house will give you the opportunity to make other friends. The Gryffindor fifth year girls are all very kind, and I'm sure you'd feel at home with them…"

"Professor Dumbledore is trying to convince you to join _his _house. He wants to steal you away from the other heads," Dippet half-whispers playfully. "He can probably tell you'll be one for winning house points, as opposed to losing them." He winks at her, and Clara can't help but smile. She feels at ease. Almost at home. Tom had said Dippet was very kind, that he'd always been like a doting uncle towards him.

"You know full well that it's not house points I'm concerned with, Headmaster," Dumbledore says pointedly.

"Oh _poppycock, _Albus!" Dippet exclaims. "I don't know what you've got against him but -"

"Clara is _vulnerable_, as you are well aware. I think it sensible to place her in my own house where I can easily keep an eye on her." He turns from Dippet to address Clara. "I don't mean to sound patronising, of course Clara, but you've been through a lot."

Clara nods, and before she can get a word in edgeways, Dippet is off again.

"She's found a friend in Tom, Albus. A friend is what she needs and -"

"Tom Riddle does not have friends, Armando. And I don't think it wise that we use Clara as a test subject to see if he's actually changed his attitude towards people."

"Albus, I know you don't much care for the boy, but the rest of us find him to be charming, intelligent and amiable. Quite clearly, Clara feels the same." Dippet looks towards her and Clara takes the opportunity to nod her support of Tom. She can't understand Dumbledore's dislike of him. What can Tom have done that was so dreadful that Dumbledore now reacts to him like this? Surely it can't be a matter of house rivalry?

"With the current situation I think we should exercise a great deal of caution. And I've already told you my concerns about -"

"You have," Dippet cuts in coldly. "And I thought I'd made it clear that I want to hear no more on the matter. Clara, if you'd like to be in Slytherin, you can be in Slytherin."

"I _would _like that, Headmaster," she says quietly, not wanting to upset Dumbledore. He has been so kind and supportive, and she knows he only has her best interests at heart. Obviously, he doesn't know Tom that well. She's sure that if he _did _get to know him, he'd like him just as much as Dippet does.

Dippet sends a message to Tom requesting that he join them in the office, and by the time they've sorted out Clara's lessons - her optional selections being Ancient Runes and Arithmancy, Tom has arrived, his prefect badge gleaming on his chest.

"Clara's going to be in Slytherin, Tom," Dippet tells him. All the while, Dumbledore remains quiet.

"That's excellent news, Headmaster. I'm so pleased." Tom glances at Clara and smiles. She can't help but smile in return.

"You'll help her settle in, I trust? Make sure she feels at home? You know how scary it can be, being alone."

Tom's face falters, and for a moment, Clara thinks he's about to argue with Dippet. As soon as she blinks, however, there is a warm smile resting on Tom's lips.

"Of course Headmaster. I'll see to it that she's well looked after."

"There's a good lad," Dippet says heartily. "Do have a sweet, dear boy."

Tom follows orders and moves forward, his long fingers plucking a sweet from the dish on Dippet's desk. Dippet pushes the dish towards Clara, and she takes one too.

"Albus?"

Dumbledore regards the selection on offer - chocolate limes, sherbet lemons, aniseed balls, but shakes his head. "No thank you, Headmaster."

Dippet sighs softly and looks up at Tom. "What are your plans for the afternoon? If you wanted a little trip into Hogsmeade I'm sure we could arrange it...seems silly to keep you cooped up in here all Christmas."

"I was going to take tea with Professor Slughorn," Tom says. "And I'm sure he'd be delighted if Clara joined us." He turns to Clara. "I don't think you've met Professor Slughorn yet, have you?"

"No," she replies, shaking her head. "The name rings a bell though, so I'm sure you've mentioned him."

Dumbledore shifts slightly in his seat.

"Yes, probably," Tom agrees. "He's our head of house."

"Excellent," Dippet says, clapping his hands together. "Well Clara, we'll have your belongings sent down to the Slytherin dormitories, now you two run along and enjoy yourselves."

Clara stands. "Thank you Headmaster. You've been very kind."

"You're most welcome my dear. Oh and Tom, make sure Clara's up to speed with all the O.W.L. work, will you?"

"Yes Headmaster, of course."

"Very good, very good."

Clara follows Tom from the office, and as she descends the spiral staircase, she hears Dippet's voice, faint in the distance.

"In the current climate, Slytherin house is the safest place for her, Albus."

"You're sure of that, are you, Armando?"

"Positive."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** So, we are at chapter three. Helpfully I'm heading back to London again this weekend, so I've another couple of train journeys which I can spend writing. They're proving to be most useful at the moment. Thank you to all those who have reviewed, you are all my favourites. ;) Also, and this is the point where I go off on a tangent, I've just been reading the bit about the image manager and story covers. That all sounds rather exciting. I might have to look into knocking up a cover. That'll be fun. =] Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter - let me know if you do! Or if you don't. But I'm being an optimist. =]

* * *

**Blank Canvas**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

The Slytherin common room is dark, richly furnished, and more than a little creepy. The low light means that shadows loom in quiet corners, and Clara feels exceedingly tiny in the cavernous room.

Tom has made himself at home in the most luxurious velvet covered winged armchair the common room has to offer, and Clara takes a seat on the nearby sofa, resting her hands on her knees. She watches the fire crackling in the grate, and it's only when she can retain her question no longer that she tears her eyes away from the fireplace.

"Why doesn't Professor Dumbledore like you?" she asks, the words tumbling from her mouth without so much as a shred of delicacy.

Tom smirks and Clara is surprised to see him take the matter so lightly. "He never has liked me," Tom tells her. "And I don't suppose he ever will."

"But _why_ though?" Clara presses. "There must be a reason, surely?"

"Well, we got off on the wrong foot," Tom admits. "What you have to understand, is growing up in a place like that, being treated the way I was treated..."

"How were you treated?"

"Like a nuisance... So when Dumbledore came to take me away, I was hardly the friendliest child he'd ever met."

"And he held that against you?"

"Well he's never warmed to me, let's put it like that," Tom says, his fingertips tracing patterns on the arm of his chair.

Clara frowns and looks down at the threadbare rug on the floor. Something is bothering her - something Dumbledore said, but she can't decide whether she ought to mention it to Tom or not. Deciding it will play on her mind if she doesn't say anything, she bites the bullet.

"Dumbledore says you don't have friends."

Tom's face drops and his fingers still on the chair. Clara watches, waiting for an answer. Slowly, his fingers begin to trace circles on the velvet once again, and his face regains its neutral expression.

"I do tend to keep myself to myself," Tom confesses. "Growing up in an orphanage means you get very little time to yourself, and I tend to make up for that when I'm here."

Clara purses her lips, but asks no more of Tom. If he likes to keep himself to himself then why is he spending so much time with her? Is she being a nuisance to him? Would he rather be left alone? Would he have preferred it if she _had_ been placed in Gryffindor house?

"Come on," Tom says, after a short silence. "I said to Professor Slughorn I'd be arriving at half past three."

Clara gets up, her mind still asking a million and one questions, and she follows Tom out of the common room and into the corridor beyond.

When they arrive at Slughorn's office, Tom knocks on the door three times. It seems to Clara that everything he does is perfect, even knocking on a door- not so loud that it sounds demanding or rude, but just loud enough for Slughorn to hear. Considering he was raised in an orphanage, his social skills are surprisingly sophisticated. Not that he ought to have turn out feral, of course, but Tom's demeanour hints more at a privileged upbringing.

The door opens, and the first thing Clara sees is a large round belly. She looks up, and is greeted by an equally round face, rosy cheeks and a thick mop of straw coloured hair sitting atop Professor Slughorn's head.

"Oho!" he says, his arms stretched wide in greeting. "I see you didn't waste any time, Tom m'boy!"

"No sir," Tom says softly. "This is Clara, though I'm sure the headmaster has already told you..." he trails off, and Clara glances towards him. She's curious to see if he will continue, and if he does, how exactly he will go about explaining her. He'd probably do a far better job than she would, she thinks. But no further explanation is required as Slughorn steps to one side, and gestures for them to enter with one great sweeping motion of his arm.

"Of course, of course!" Slughorn booms. "And may I say, Clara, what a pleasure it is to have you in my house. The headmaster sent me an owl just a few minutes before you arrived."

"Oh, thank you sir," Clara says, looking around the office. It's rather small, with a great number of fine objects crammed into it - portraits, trinket boxes, figurines, several crystal decanters filled with amber spirits, and, at the centre, a large mahogany desk which takes up most of the office. Behind it sits a handsome green leather high backed chair. Its brass studs are brightly polished, though some of the colour has faded from the leather on the arms.

"Sit down, sit down," he says, drawing up two rickety wooden chairs that rather lack the splendour his own possesses.

"Thank you sir," Tom says, taking his seat. Slughorn busies himself with a small china tea set in the corner, and Clara sits down next to Tom.

She's not entirely sure what to make of Slughorn. He seems friendly enough but there is something about his overly jovial voice that doesn't quite set her at ease. He is nothing like Dumbledore, with his quiet wit and gentle nature, nor is he like Dippet, whose fussiness and kindness are more akin to an elderly relative than a headmaster. Slughorn, however, she is unsure of.

"Here we are then," Slughorn says, setting a gleaming silver tray down on the desk. "Ladies first." He passes a cup and saucer to Clara, and she thanks him, declining his offer of sugar.

"I suppose she's sweet enough already, eh Tom?" he chortles. Tom smiles in response.

"Very good sir," he says indulgently. Clara stares at him, and he arches his eyebrow ever so slightly. Slughorn doesn't notice it, but Clara gets the message straight away. She allows a small smile to form on her lips, similar to Tom's. She has nothing in this world. Nothing except Tom, and he's trying to help her, just as he must be trying to help himself. He knows what it is to have nothing, and yet he's managed to become a prefect, the teachers' (except Dumbledore's) favourite. When you have no money, no social standing, no family, no _memories_, this is how you work your way up - and where better to start than with your head of house?

"So," Slughorn begins, now settled in his chair, "Clara. How are you finding Hogwarts?"

"Oh I like it very much, sir. It's far nicer than St Mungo's at any rate."

"I should imagine so!" Slughorn agrees heartily. "Food's better too, I'd wager."

"Absolutely," she nods her head emphatically, then picks up her teaspoon to give her tea a stir. "Better company too."

"Oho..." Slughorn grins, his bright eyes darting towards Tom, apparently looking for some sort of reaction. Clara doesn't turn to look, and trusts that Slughorn's smile means that whatever Tom's reaction was, it was positive.

"I suppose Tom's been looking after you, hasn't he? You're a lucky girl, Clara. Tom's one of the few young men here who knows how to treat a lady."

Clara has no idea how to respond, and so she smiles, then takes a sip of her tea.

"Oh really sir. You can't be serious," Tom says with a chuckle. "I'm sure there are plenty of boys here who would treat Clara as she deserves..."

The conversations continue in the same bizarre three way flattery competition for the next hour, and by the time Tom announces that dinner will be soon and they'd best let Slughorn get ready, Clara has had quite enough.

Slughorn's cheerful laughter disappears as the heavy wooden door of his office closes with a soft thud. Once they have descended the first flight of stairs, Clara lets out a sigh.

"How often do you put yourself through that?" she asks. Tom lets out a breath of laughter.

"Just often enough," he replies. He reaches out a hand to guide her over the trick step on the staircase, but Clara skips over it before he has a chance to assist her.

"How did you know that was there?" he asks, his eyebrows contorted into a small frown. "This isn't the way we came."

Clara shrugs and looks at him blankly. "It's just habit I suppose," she says at last. "Or instinct. I don't know."

Tom continues to stare at her for a short while longer, and Clara starts to feel uneasy. Sometimes when he looks at her, it's like he can see right inside her, like he can access all those memories she can't. It's almost like he knows her better than she knows herself.

"Strange," he says, and then continues down the stairs.

Clara follows, her head swimming with thoughts.

Very strange.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** I know I'm a very bad author. This chapter was tough. Add to that several major life events happening in the last week...I'll give you a quick update because I'm dead pleased and want to share. First, I landed myself with the task of writing an article for my favourite singer, and that's going to be posted on his website at the end of July. Second I found a perfect house to move into. Third I've more or less got another job in order to pay for said perfect house. Fourth I got the results for my degree - first class with honours. And fifth...well, there is no fifth, but having a first class degree I think is definitely worth two. So there we are. In writing news, I posted an original piece of fiction on my blog, the link is on my twitter. If you guys wanted to read that and let me know if you enjoy it I'd be eternally grateful. Second, I'm writing another HP based _thing_ for my brother for his birthday. It's gonna take priority over this but hopefully I'll get this updated fairly regularly now I've gotten past this chapter. It's based on the goings on at the Ministry during the first war, mostly with original characters, blah blah. I'm quite excited about it anyhow. I'll post it when it's done. I realise this is a HENCH note but it's been a while and I hope you will forgive. Hope you like the chapter too, let me know what you think. =]

* * *

**Blank Canvas**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

The night before the start of the spring term, the rest of the Slytherins arrive back in the common room, their cloaks glistening with snow flakes. Clara is sitting in the corner with Tom, a book open in her lap. She glances up as they file in, their pale faces blotched with pink from the chilly wind outside. Each and every one of them looks at her for the briefest moment, and then continue as if they haven't seen her.

Clara's stomach twists with nerves. She's been lucky with Tom. He's kind and he's friendly, and she had assumed that the other Slytherins would be the same. She gets the distinct feeling that she was very much mistaken, and looks at Tom for an explanation.

"Most of them come from very haughty families. They don't like new people," he says, his eyes fixed on them as they climb the stairs to the dormitories to drop off their belongings. They return to the common room in dribs and drabs, talking in low voices, and very much _not _looking in Clara and Tom's direction.

"Aren't any of them going to come and say hello to you?" Clara asks softly.

Tom shakes his head. "Orphan. Why would they want to associate with me?"

"That's awful," she replies. "How would they feel if -"

"They _don't_ feel, that's what you must understand."

"What d'you mean?"

Tom sets his book to one side and lowers his voice even further. "Traditionally, Slytherins are purebloods, from the oldest wizarding families. They have a sense of entitlement that is passed down from father to son, mother to daughter, and as such, anybody considered to be beneath them on the social ladder is not even acknowledged. They don't know anything of empathy or sympathy, all they know is what they want and how to get it."

"So why are you in Slytherin then?" Clara asks. She can't see that the sorting hat made a very good job of it if it placed Tom with a bunch of stuck up children.

"I'm a pureblood, Clara."

"But you were raised in an orpha-"

"My mother was very ill when she had me. She died after the birth. They didn't know she was a witch."

"And your father?"

"Dead also." Tom's voice is cold now, and so Clara asks him no more questions. She turns her attention back to her book, very aware of the soft mutterings coming from various corners of the common room. She ignores them, or at least she tries. Eventually though, she gives up. She closes her book and stands. Tom looks up at her, his dark eyes curious.

"I'm going to bed," she says. "Long day tomorrow, I'd better rest."

"Just ignore them," Tom says quietly. "It's only what they'll do to you anyway."

Clara stares at him for a moment. She doesn't know how to feel about his ability to read her so accurately. On the one hand it's wonderful to have someone who understands her, knows what she's feeling at each moment and knows what to say to try and make her feel better. On the other hand, she hates that she can't use being tired as an excuse to go to bed. She hates that she's so transparent to him and even more than that, hates that he _knows_ that.

"Goodnight," she says softly, and turns away.

"Goodnight Clara, sleep well."

She lays in bed, staring at the canopy over her four poster, her mind buzzing. She doesn't know what time it is when eventually she closes her eyes, all she knows is that the other girls have been sleeping for hours.

* * *

"The more eagle-eyed among you may have noticed we have a new student among our group this morning," Professor Dumbledore says, walking towards the table where Clara sits with Tom. "This is Clara, she's in Slytherin, and she'll be studying with us from now on. I do hope you'll all make her feel very welcome."

The silence that follows causes the hairs on the back of Clara's neck to stand on end. She can feel every pair of eyes in the room looking at her, examining her, and quickly making a judgement of her. When she meets the stare of a blonde haired Gryffindor boy sitting in the row in front of her, he looks away. She then glances towards a couple of girls to the right, and they coldly match her gaze for a few seconds before they too turn away from her.

She hasn't even opened her mouth and already the whole class seems to have decided that she will most certainly _not_ be made welcome. She had thought that it would be something confined solely to the Slytherins and their self-important attitudes. Hadn't Dumbledore said that the fifth year Gryffindor girls were all very nice? Hadn't he assured her things would be better for her had she chosen to stay in his house? Apparently he was wrong.

"On we go then, ever further into the unsteady ground of learning." Dumbledore clears his throat and makes his way back towards the front of the classroom. "Now I do recall promising that we would be starting our work on Vanishing Spells with regards to _vertebrates_ this term..."

Dumbledore, as Clara has found out, is often incredibly considerate. While the others are working with mice, he provides her with a slug, far easier and far less stressful for a first lesson. When she manages to vanish it on her first attempt however, Dumbledore beams.

"Well, it appears that your previous teachings haven't vanished, even if the slug has!" he says cheerfully, summoning a mouse for her. Clara knows that the slug has nothing to do with Dumbledore's real point. If she can remember how to do a Vanishing Spell then not all of her is lost. Some of the person she was still remains, perhaps all of her is hidden deep within.

Dumbledore wanders around the room, correcting the other students with their pronunciation or their wand movements, though when Clara vanishes her mouse successfully, she notices that his sharp blue eyes are focused on her.

When the bell sounds at the end of the lesson, she and Tom pack up their belongings and head for the door.

"Very well done today Clara," Dumbledore calls after her. "Very well done indeed."

"Thank you sir," Clara says politely.

"And you too, Tom," Dumbledore adds.

Tom, who is holding the door open for Clara, nods but says nothing. It seems that he has given up on winning Dumbledore over. Clara, on the other hand, thinks she already has the Professor on side. She won't ever say it to Tom, but she's very _very_ glad about that.

* * *

By the end of the day Clara is very tired of being stared at. Nobody except Tom and her teachers has said a word to her, and yet they've all managed to fit in plenty of staring. She can't sit in the common room, especially not when Tom is at a prefect's meeting. She hates to be dependent on him but being an outcast with another outcast is far easier than being the only outcast in the room.

She had attempted to find solace in the library, but even in the most quiet corner she still didn't manage to evade the curious eyes, peeping through the bookshelves at her.

The second floor bathroom on the other hand, is completely quiet. It is, apparently, the only place in the whole castle where she can read in peace. Whether it's because the first and third floor bathrooms are in far more convenient positions for most people, or whether it's because there's a slightly eerie feel to the room, with its constantly dripping tap and its dull grey stone, she doesn't know. Either way, even after an hour of reading, Clara has not been disturbed once.

With her Arithmancy homework almost complete, Clara is nearly ready to head back to the dormitories. When she wakes on the floor of the bathroom, her quill lying several feet away, it takes a while for her sense to come back to her fully. Her head feels heavy, her limbs are slow to respond and her ears are cloudy.

But then she hears Professor Dumbledore's voice, sounding clearly in the bathroom.

"All students are to return to their dormitories and remain there until further instructions are issued."

Clara has no idea what's going on. She doesn't know how long she's been unconscious for.

And that's what scares her the most.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Okay, I'm gonna give you the heads up now - this'll probably be the last update for a good couple of weeks. I'm moving house this weekend and I won't have the internet for a fair while, although I suppose this means my production rate will skyrocket. Hopefully this will keep you going until then though. I'll still be tweeting. The old iphone won't be suffering. But I don't think you'll much appreciate the next chapter in 140 character instalments. And I don't much fancy typing it on an iphone keyboard. Anyway, I'm getting off the point. Thanks for the lovely comments last time. You're all fab and I heart you in that way that internet people do. (Not in the weird, let's-get-the-police-involved kind of way, just the normal way.) Hope you like this, let me know what you think! =]

* * *

**Blank Canvas**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

At first she runs, but then her head decides against it. She is confused, scared, and a little dizzy. As she descends the stairs she grips the bannister tightly, her fingers shaking. She hears footsteps approaching in the corridor below and freezes. She does _not_ want to be found. Not in this situation.

"There you are!"

Clara's chest falls as she lets out a huge sigh. Tom is standing at the bottom of the stairs, his face even paler than usual.

"Tom," she breathes, relief flooding through her. "What's going on?"

"Back to the common room," he says. "Quickly." He holds out his hand and Clara slowly takes the last few steps down to him. Her hand joins his and he interlaces their fingers. Something in the pit of her stomach leaps, and she is no longer scared.

Tom leads the way down the next flight of stairs and across the entrance hall. Just as they are about to slip into the corridor that leads to the dungeons, they are spotted.

"Tom! Clara! What are you doing out in the corridors?"

Clara spins around to see Professor Dumbledore exiting the Great Hall. She feels as though a stone fist has clenched around her heart. She feels like she has betrayed him simply by being out of her dormitory. She cannot bear to look at those cold blue eyes.

"Please sir," Tom says, his tone earnest. "Clara didn't return to the common room after the announcement. I went looking for her. I was...worried."

Dumbledore arches one eyebrow and turns his piercing gaze onto Clara.

"Why weren't you in the common room?" he asks. "The instructions were quite clear."

"Sir I..." She doesn't know what to say, only that she doesn't want to tell the truth. She doesn't want to end up in St Mungo's again, and she certainly doesn't want to see Mr Auden again, or Buckhurst, or whatever name he's going by this time.

"I panicked," she says at last, not able to disguise the slight tremor in her voice. "I panicked and then I got lost. There are so many staircases..."

Dumbledore stares at her for a moment longer and Clara is sure he knows she is lying, sure that at any moment, he will demand the truth from her. But then his face softens and he lowers his gaze.

"Very well," he says. "Back to the common room with the pair of you."

"Sir," Tom says, taking a step forward and releasing Clara's hand. Already, he seems to be a mile away from her. She doesn't like the sudden lack of contact. She doesn't like it at all.

"Sir, what happened exactly? Was it...the same as last time?"

Dumbledore sighs heavily. "I'm afraid so, Tom."

"And the victim?"

"Emily Seddon. Seventh year Ravenclaw. I suppose the only consolation is that she was just petrified, nothing worse."

Clara cannot take the information in. Petrified? Nothing worse? Same as last time?

"Yes, I suppose that's something," Tom agrees quietly. He turns back towards Clara. "Are you all right?"

Clara tries to nod but all she can manage is a stiff jerk of her head.

"Come on," Tom says. "Let's get you back to the common room."

"Be careful," Dumbledore warns. "Stay alert, and stay together."

"Of course sir," Tom says obediently, and he takes Clara by the hand once more, steering her down the corridor, towards the dungeons. All the while, as they trudge towards the common room, Clara cannot shake off the feeling of that piercing blue stare.

* * *

Silent stares greet them when they arrive in the common room. Nobody says a word, but Clara knows their questions. Their eyes say it all. They don't even try to be discrete with their accusatory glares. Clara has learned the hard way that the Slytherins don't give a damn about her feelings.

Tom pulls her roughly into a corner, where the stone walls are damp and they're unlikely to be overheard. She looks up at him and when she sees his expression, her stomach jolts. He's furious.

"What the _hell _were you doing?" he hisses. "Do you realise how long you were gone for?"

"No, no Tom I don't," she stammers. He's gripping her wrist tightly but she doesn't dare complain about the pain. His dark eyes are boring into her own and she feels like a child being scolded by a parent.

"What happened?" His voice is urgent and low, his teeth gritted. His eyes never leave hers. She wants to break the gaze but it's like he's holding her in place. She can't look away, no matter how much she wants to.

"I don't _know, _Tom," she wails. "I woke up in the bathroom on the second floor, I don't _know_ why I was unconscious. I was so scared Tom."

Tom relaxes his grip, his shoulders sagging. He looks away from her, towards the fireplace and the students surrounding it. His lips move as he whispers something and Clara barely manages to register it.

"What did you say?"

Tom looks down at her and drops her wrist from his grip. "Nothing."

"Yes you did," she says. "You said something, just then."

"What were you even doing in the bathroom?" Tom asks.

"I...I couldn't find anywhere else to read. Everyone was staring at me. Like that." She flicks her eyes over towards the group of fourth years sitting near the stairs. When Tom looks over, they look away simultaneously. A pang of jealousy sears in Clara. She wishes she were afforded the same courtesy.

Tom sighs. "Just...try to ignore them. And stay away from that bathroom."

"Why?"

Tom reaches out to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear. His eyes don't seem as dark now, his expression is softer. Tender, almost.

"Trust me."

Clara nods, chewing anxiously on her lower lip, and Tom takes his hand away from her face.

"You'd best get some sleep," he says, in a tone that communicates quite clearly to Clara that she is being dismissed. She doesn't mind though. At least the dormitory will be empty, and she doesn't much fancy answering any more of Tom's questions. Each one makes her insides tie in tighter and denser knots. She hates the feeling.

When he bids her goodnight, she doesn't reply. She has too much on her mind. She wishes now, more than ever, that she had a mother or a father, just to hold her and tell her that everything will be all right. But she doesn't have anything remotely like that. All she has is Tom. She's grateful for him, but he's hardly the hugging type. He can't provide her with the comfort she needs right now. Especially not when he's being so strict with her.

As she lays in bed, staring at the canopy above her, she knows she will not get a wink of sleep. Tom's whisper is seeping through her brain like poison; a throwaway comment that has managed to chew her up from the inside out. The more she tries to ignore it, the more viciously it attacks her every thought. She knows exactly what he said. And she never knew that four little words could do so much damage.

_Just like last time._


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Hey kids! I got internet last Monday so I'm now back. You can all rejoice. Or go about your business, whichever you prefer. Updates will be slow - I'm currently working six days a week (like a proper grown up) and my fancy new job is full of fancy perks like business trips and android tablets, so it's all good in my world at the moment. If a little busy. I'll try to update when I can though, and as I phase into my new job it means I'll have more days off and more money, huzzah! So we should eventually get back to normal. I'm rambling now but it's late, and I'll admit I haven't proofread this. I got kind of sick of this chapter. It was a bit arsey. Hope you're all well anyway, and hope you enjoy the chapter. =]

* * *

**Blank Canvas**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

She cannot take a single bite of breakfast. The sight of the bacon makes her feel nauseous, the eggs even more so. The toast looks unusually dry while the cereals, she decides, would be best avoided altogether. She tries to take a sip of apple juice but it's sharp in her throat, and she puts her glass down on the table. Tom, sitting opposite, glances up from his newspaper, his long fingers stroking the rim of his coffee mug. He holds her gaze for a moment then returns his attention to an article on goblin hostility. He has a way of making her feel distinctly unimportant. Any other day she might be hurt, but today, she craves it. She doesn't want to be special. She wants to be just another face in the crowd. A nobody. A normal nobody.

Throughout the day, the castle is filled with the buzz of hushed whispers. Nobody speaks in a normal tone, nor do they discuss anything other than the hottest topic.

"They'll be able to fix her, when the mandrakes have matured."

"Did you hear? Clara Dewhurst didn't arrive back in the Slytherin common room until hours after everyone was told to go to their houses!"

"Come off it, she can't have anything to do with it - she's best friends with _Tom Riddle_."

"And?"

"Perfect Tom? Associating with the Heir of Slytherin? Are you sure?"

"I s'pose you've got a point."

"Yeah, I s'pose I do."

"She's funny though, don't you think? Looked white as a sheet at breakfast."

"Probably because she hasn't seen sunlight in months - they keep the Slytherins underground you know."

"Best place for 'em."

The Gryffindors chuckle quietly, and Clara leans back against the wall, acid rising in her throat. She hates being talked about, hates being made fun of too, and more than anything, hates being the centre of gossip. Worse than that, however, is that she cannot leap out from behind the bookcase, telling the Gryffindors where they can shove their rumours, because for all she knows, they're well founded. She can't tell them what she was doing the previous night when Emily Seddon was attacked, she can't tell them she had nothing to do with it.

All she can say is 'I didn't mean to', and what good did that ever do anybody?

A single tear escapes the corner of her eye, and trickles down her cheek. Another follows, and within seconds, she has her hand clamped over her mouth, trying not to make a sound in the hush of the library. When Tom appears from behind the next bookcase, he frowns at her. Clara doesn't think before she throws herself at him, wrapping her arms tightly around his middle, burying her face in his chest. He rubs her back, awkwardly at first, but then his hand gets into a smooth, comforting rhythm that helps calm her down. He doesn't say anything, because, Clara figures, he, like she, realises that there's nothing he can say.

When the tears subside, Clara pulls back, just slightly. Her throat feels tight, and her eyes swollen. When she speaks, her words come out in a quiet croak.

"I want to go and see Dumbledore."

Tom's eyes flash.

"No. Absolutely not."

"But -"

"Clara, I won't allow it," he says firmly, his eyes boring into her own.

Clara takes a step back from him, her arms dropping to her sides. "You won't _allow_ it?"

Tom rolls his eyes. "Now is _not_ the time to become a feminist. You know I have only your best interests at heart, and when I say that going to Dumbledore is a bad idea, you _need_ to trust me."

"But I _trust_ Dumbledore," Clara argues. "He was so good to me when I was in St Mungo's, and he's been good to me ever since."

"But what about -" Tom stops abruptly, as though his voice has been snatched from his throat. He shakes his head. "No, forget I said anything. Just don't go to Dumbledore, _please_."

"What about _what_?" Clara hisses. She glances over to the group of Gryffindors to make sure that they're all still blissfully unaware of the fact that she's here. The last thing she wants is for them to hear this argument.

"Look, it doesn't matter, but you have to know that I'm your friend, and that you ought to trust me."

"How can I trust you when you won't even tell me what's going on? What are you hiding from me?"

"Clara, it's for your own good. If I told you everything I wouldn't need you to trust me, but right now I do. I promise you won't regret it."

Her fists are balled by her sides and all she wants to do is storm off. But when she looks into those round eyes of his, she relaxes. Tom is the only friend she has, and from what she's seen, she's all he's got too. He wouldn't do anything to hurt her. She knows that.

"Okay," she says. "But can we leave? I'm fed up of hearing people gossiping about me."

Tom nods, and takes her hand in his, then leads the way towards the exit. She can feel the Gryffindors stare at her as she goes, but ignores them. She won't give them the satisfaction of knowing that they're getting to her.

They walk in silence along the corridor and down the stairs until they reach the entrance hall.

"Dinner?" Tom asks.

Clara shakes her head.

"I didn't think you'd want to," he sighs.

"You go ahead, I'll see you later," she says, but Tom shrugs.

"I don't have much of an appetite either," he says, and together, they head down to the dungeons.

The question has been rolling around in her head all day, but whenever Clara thought she might have the courage to voice it, something managed to get in the way - the sudden appearance of a teacher, Tom starting a conversation about something else, the feeling deep in the pit of her stomach that tells her she really doesn't want to know the answer.

Sometimes though, and Clara has learned this the hard way, knowing is better than not knowing. No matter how bad the truth is, once it's there as cold hard fact, all you can do is accept it and deal with it. Not knowing will torture you until you finally _do _know. Ignorance is not bliss, not by a long shot.

"What did you mean, _just like last time_?"

"Hmm?" Tom sounds distracted, but Clara knows he's only pretending not to have heard her. He doesn't want to talk about it any more than she does. But she _has_ to know. She'll go insane if she doesn't find out.

"You heard," she says stiffly. "Last night. You said 'just like last time'. What happened last time?"

Tom frowns and places his hands in his pockets. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

Clara is having none of it. "I'm sure you do."

"Well I'm sure I _don't_." There is a sharpness to Tom's tone that surprises her, and Clara stops walking while Tom carries on.

"I heard you say it," she calls after him. "Clear as day. Don't deny it!"

"Clara, you don't even remember your own birthday, are you _sure_ you heard what you thought you did?"

"My memory has got _nothing _to do with this and you know that!" she says angrily. "That was below the belt!"

Tom stops walking and turns around, his head bowed. He sighs heavily then looks up at her, his hands still deep in his pockets. "Fine. That _was _below the belt and I'm sorry. But I honestly didn't say anything of the sort last night."

"Yes you _did_," she says softly, her voice small, almost childlike. She's doubting herself now. But she's also doubting him too. How can he expect her to trust him when he behaves like this? Unless he _didn't_ say anything? Unless she's so stressed and horrified by what's happened that her mind is playing tricks on her, and poor Tom is bearing the brunt of it.

Her bottom lip starts to tremble, but she tells herself that she won't cry, not for a second time today. One outburst of emotion is plenty.

"Come on," he says, holding out his hand. "You should get some rest, it's been a very trying day."

And of course, all she can do is take his hand and follow his instructions.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Hey amigos! How's it going? I've finally done some writing, and I think I might be on a bit of a burst this weekend. It's so gonna be a jimmers, junkfood and jwriting weekend which is ace for story progress. ANYWHO. Here's a chapter. I quite like it. I hope you do too. Let me know what you think! =]

* * *

**Blank Canvas**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

Everywhere she goes there are whispers. She tries to keep her head held high, tries to ignore the eyes that follow her while cupped hands shield hurtful comments from her ears, but it's difficult. When she gets back to her dormitory at night, she holds in a sob, determined not to be beaten, and falls into a restless sleep.

When she wakes, her face is damp with tears. She tries to roll over and get back to sleep, but it's no use. Unable to stand the silence of the dormitory for a moment longer, she gets up, puts on her slippers, and goes down to the common room. She lights the fire, sits in the most comfortable velvet armchair, and opens a textbook.

Eventually, the sounds of the other Slytherins slowing coming to life filter down the spiral staircases, and Clara goes to ready herself for another day of misery.

When she looks in the mirror, the dark circles under her eyes and the gauntness of her features only lower her mood. As much as the other students are affecting her, she doesn't want them to know, but this is something she cannot hide.

She especially cannot hide it from Professor Dumbledore, who clears his throat at the end of her Transfiguration lesson and says quietly, "Clara, a moment of your time, if you will?"

She feels the heat rise in her cheeks as the others in her class share knowing expressions, and stays in her seat as they all stand to leave.

"Anything I can help you with, Tom?" Dumbledore asks politely.

"Oh, I was just waiting for Clara, sir," Tom replies. Clara looks up to see that he too is sitting in his seat, his leather satchel filled with textbooks and straining at the seams.

"Well I'm sure you can wait for her in the Great Hall. Save her something nice for lunch, won't you? I believe the elves have some particularly nice steak pies on the menu today, and it looks as though Miss Dewhurst could do with a rather large slice of one of those."

"Yes sir," Tom says obediently. Clara watches as he leaves, her stomach twisting into knots. She knows what this is. And part of her wants to tell Dumbledore every single thing that's been upsetting her in the last two weeks. She wants to tell him that she doesn't know if she can trust Tom, but feels awful for doubting him. She wants to tell him that she's scared, and worse than that, scared of _herself_. She wants to cry, and she wants him to tell her that everything will be fine, that she's not in trouble, and that whatever she's done, no matter how awful it is, they'll be able to fix it - or even better, they'll be able to fix _her_.

But when Professor Dumbledore perches on the edge of the desk in front of Clara's and peers down at her through his half moon spectacles, her throat dries up. She cannot utter a word. She glances to the door, and wonders whether Tom is _actually_ making his way down to the Great Hall, or whether he's waiting outside for her.

She wonders whether he's listening.

_"Going to Dumbledore is a bad idea, you need to trust me."_

Tom was quite firm on that.

_"Tom Riddle doesn't have friends."_

Dumbledore was quite firm on _that_.

He follows Clara's gaze towards the door, then raises his wand, and with a simple flick, a blanket of silence falls around them.

"No one outside of this room can hear anything you tell me," Dumbledore says softly. "And there is a lot you'd like to tell me, I think."

Dumbledore has never implored her to trust him. Tom is constantly telling her to trust him. Tom needs her to trust him more than Dumbledore does.

Maybe Tom cares more.

"You're close to Tom, aren't you?" Dumbledore says quietly, his hands clasped in front of him. The way he looks at Clara makes her skin prickle with shame. It's like he's disappointed in her.

"He's all I've got." Clara doesn't meet his eye. She can't.

"Is that what he's told you?"

"It's what I know."

"Clara," he sighs, "You are so very vulnerable in your position. Placing you in Slytherin house was a mistake that I dearly wish I could go back and fix."

"I _wanted_ to go in Slytherin."

"With Tom, because Tom was nice and you had no idea that the others would not be remotely accommodating."

"They hate Tom, too."

"They're jealous of Tom. They won't admit it, but they are. Tom is living proof that purebloods do not make a greater wizard. They cannot stand it. You, on the other hand, are a separate matter entirely."

"How so?"

"You don't matter to them."

Clara sits up straight. "What?"

"They've all established their...relationships with each other, you have no family thus no important connections, your value to a Slytherin is approximately zero."

"Nice," Clara says thickly, trying not to let herself feel too hurt by the comments.

"It is _not_ a measure of your faults Clara, but a measure of _theirs_. Had you been in any of the other houses you would have been valued for other things - in Hufflepuff, you would have found yourself surrounded by people keen to befriend you, as being a Hufflepuff is enough to them. In Ravenclaw, your sharp mind would have seen that you were appreciated, and Gryffindor...well, a knowledge of how to have a good time is often regarded as an excellent quality."

"But all the other houses, they all hate me because I'm in Slytherin, so they can't be _that_ much better than the Slytherins themselves."

"Oh you shan't hear me defend their attitudes, but perhaps if we take a moment, we could understand it. Not justify it, but understand it. The Slytherins behave to the other houses as they do to you. How much regard do you hold for your fellow housemates?"

Clara skews her lips to one side, and Dumbledore continues.

"Exactly, so while it is easy to tar a group of people from the actions of one, it is a great deal easier to tar a single teenage girl with the actions of many. Not nice, especially not for you, but not impossible to understand. However," he says, after a deep breath, "not all that helpful for you."

"No," Clara agrees.

"The reason you feel that Tom is all you have is because you have convinced yourself that that is the case. Should you need to talk about anything, anything at all, you know where my office is. Rest assured anything you do tell me will remain between the two of us."

"I know, Professor. Thank you."

"Now. What exactly is troubling you?"

She believes he would keep her secrets as if they were his own, but if she tells him that she's worried that she's attacking the students, that everybody keeps saying that she's the heir of Slytherin, that she's a risk to the hundreds of people in the castle...well, she's not sure he'd be able to keep that to himself. And how could she blame him? She ought to be selfless, she ought to seek redemption for the terrible things she's done, by stopping herself from doing it again.

If she tells Dumbledore, it could all be over by the end of the day.

_I hear those Azkaban cells are rather...cosy..._

Her stomach jolts, and she tries to ignore the voice in her head that sounds like Tom's.

"That pie's probably getting cold," Clara says, getting to her feet and swinging her bag onto her shoulder.

"Warming charms are really quite simple, Clara."

"The pastry goes all...funny..." She backs towards the door, hating herself more and more with every cowardly step she takes.

"Very well," Dumbledore sighs. "When you're ready to talk, you know where I am. Just remember that you have more than one friend in this castle."

"Yes sir," Clara says, reaching for the handle, her fingers trembling. "Thank you sir."

She exits quickly, walks rapidly down to the end of the corridor, turns left into the girls' bathroom, and rushes into a cubicle. She would have thought that her diminished appetite would leave nothing to splatter against the porcelain. Wrong. When she is finished, she sits with her back to the wooden cubicle door, her knees drawn up to her chest, tears falling freely.

She feels pathetic. Worse than pathetic. She has the ability to change things, and if that means that she gets punished for what she has done, then so be it. She _deserves it_. She wipes the tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her cardigan, gets to her feet, her legs still a little shaky, and leaves the bathroom.

She will not stand for this. Her parents, whoever they are, would be ashamed of her. Her mother would be fussing over how little she's been eating, and would make her a large dinner - steak pie and mashed potatoes, with something sweet for dessert.

Her father, perhaps a newspaper reading type father, one with chequered shirts and brown leather loafers, well he would probably purse his lips at the site of a lemon tart or a slice of cake. There can be too much of a good thing, after all.

Clara is so wrapped up in building herself an imaginary family that she doesn't pay any notice to the fact that she has reached the Great Hall, nor does she realise that she is storming towards the Slytherin table in a determined manner that naturally attracts attention from the other tables. She takes a seat next to Tom, shoves her bag under the table and tucks into the plate of food that Tom has saved for her. When she is finished, she helps herself to seconds, while Tom simply stares at her, his eyebrows raised.

Clara ignores him, and continues to eat, but when she next looks up, a group of Hufflepuff girls are watching her every move.

"Why don't you take a bloody photograph?" Clara demands, and the Hufflepuffs turn quickly away. A Slytherin on the opposite side of the table rolls his eyes at the disturbance. "And you can get stuffed as well!" Clara tells him. He scowls, and Clara stares hard at him until he turns away.

"What in the name of _Merlin_ has gotten into you?"

"I am _fed up_," Clara says, accenting each word by dumping a dollop of mashed potato on her plate, "of being treated like this. I'm not having it. Not for another moment. The next person to whisper about me is going to regret it. _Big time_."

"What did Dumbledore say to you?"

"Nothing that concerns _you_."

"What did you tell him?" Tom grabs her by the shoulder and turns her to face him. "Clara, you need to tell me what you told him."

"No I _don't,_" Clara argues, pulling herself from his grasp. She has been a coward for too long, and although she has run from Dumbledore today, she will not make things worse for herself. She will not bow to Tom. She will play him at his own game.

"Clara -"

"You need to trust me," she says simply, cutting up her pie.

"But -"

"If I told you everything, I wouldn't need you to trust me."

"Clara you're being -"

"What?"

"Look," Tom says, taking a steadying breath. "My only concern is _you_. I don't trust Dumbledore, so naturally I'm worried that he's tricked you into saying something you might...regret."

"I _do _trust Dumbledore. And he didn't trick me into saying _anything_. Believe it or not Tom, you're not the only person who gives a damn about me."

"I never said I was," Tom replies softly.

"But you make it seem like you are."

"No I don't," he says. "I've never done anything of the sort. All I've done is look after you. And this is how you repay me..."

"I didn't realise I was indebted to you." Clara doesn't even try to keep the acidity in her tone at bay. "I thought you were my friend."

"I am. Clara, I _am_."

"Friends don't expect payment in exchange for kindness."

For the first time since she's known him, Tom is stumped. He has no response. No quizzical expression. No smirk. He blinks, his face blank, and then stands, without uttering a word, and leaves the Great Hall.

"Hey," Clara says. "You there, yes, you with the sneer."

The dark haired girl turns to look at Clara.

"Pass me the chocolate gateau."

The girl complies, albeit with a murderous look in her eyes.

For the first time in weeks, as she helps herself to a larger than necessary slice of gateau, Clara Dewhurst grins.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **Hey guys! Thanks for your feedback on the last chapter. Glad you enjoyed feisty Clara. I enjoyed writing her if I'm perfectly honest. This one's a little shorter than last week but I feel like it ends in the right place. And on a positive note, it also means that a good deal of the next chapter is already written! There won't be an update before next weekend though. I'm a crazy cat who works about 50 hours a week and has no time to do anything. Also, JKR's new book - I've not finished it yet, but it's brilliant. My childhood ended at the top of page 15, but I've come to terms with it now. Thoroughly recommend it!

* * *

**Blank Canvas**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

She discovers that under the worry and the fear and the doubt, she's actually rather stubborn. She refuses to go to Tom and apologise, and she doesn't see why she ought to. He ignores her for a few days, though she refuses to become lonely as a result. She misses him, of course she does, and she often opens her mouth, ready to say something to him, only to remember at the last minute that she won't get a response.

It is the Tuesday following her disagreement with him that she finally manages to get him completely off her mind. On her way out of her Potions lesson, the most fleeting of glances towards the ground completely distracts her.

Spiders, some tiny, some large, are scurrying across the stone floor and through a crack in the far wall. Not just a couple of them either, a continuous line, all rushing as though...Clara doesn't know what. The whole thing is strange however, and she'd quite like to go to the library. She's sure she's never seen spiders behave that way before.

"What are you looking at?" Tom stares down at the floor too, then looks across at Clara. "Spiders, really?"

"Really," Clara says coolly. "How often do you see them act like that?"

"Not very," Tom concedes. "I was going to go and make a start on Merrythought's essay, if you'd care to join me."

Clara glances at him, then returns her attention to the spiders. "Yeah?"

"Yes, I thought we could go to the library."

Clara sighs. "I was going there anyway actually." She looks at Tom and his plain expression and suddenly, her seemingly never ending supply of stubbornness vanishes. She cannot find it in her heart to refuse him, and seeing as though he hasn't asked any questions about her conversation with Dumbledore, she can't really still be angry with him. He seems to have learned his lesson and, perhaps, if she can just let go of last week's incident, they can sweep it under the carpet.

They set off to the library and Clara can't help but keep her gaze focused on the floor. On their way, she spots another two lines of spiders scuttling to an exit, and each time she stops to look, Tom sighs pointedly.

"But don't you think it's strange?" Clara asks, crossing her arms.

"I think we've got three feet of essay to write," Tom says. "Come on." He reaches forward to take her by the arm but Clara steps back.

"This isn't right you know," she tells him. "Why on earth would they be behaving like this?"

"Maybe it's the season." Tom shrugs, and Clara shakes her head.

"No. I don't think so."

"Look, I'm going to the library. If you're going to come, come. If you'd rather hang around with spiders..."

"Well they've certainly got more manners than you," Clara retorts.

Tom stares at her, and then his lips twist into a smirk. "Come on."

Clara sighs and follows him, but she can't stop herself from looking back at the trail of spiders, their many legs scrambling to get them to their destinations as quickly as possible. When they reach the end of the corridor, Tom grabs her arm and turns her sharply, to keep her from walking straight into the wall. After this, and after the spiders are out of sight, she pays a little more attention to where she is going, taking care not to stumble up the staircase. Even when they reach the library, her mind is still in the corridor several floors below.

* * *

She feels as though she knows all of this already. She can't recall reading it in the _Standard Book of Spells, Grade Five_, but somehow it's there, in her head. She gets this feeling often, but most especially in Transfiguration. She doesn't know whether it has something to do with Dumbledore, whether his teaching style fills every student with the confidence to be able to achieve, or whether, somewhere deep within her, is a well of hidden knowledge, drip feeding her talent.

"Clara, would you like to try?"

She looks up at Professor Dumbledore, his blue eyes alight with expectation. Clara waves her wand, muttering the incantation, and the slug on the desk before her vanishes with a small _pop_.

"_Marvellous_," Dumbledore says, clapping his hands together. "Absolutely _marvellous_. Now the rest of you try, though don't be too put out if you don't get it on your first go like Clara. Oh, and twenty points to Slytherin."

Clara smiles, biting her lip. She can feel her cheeks glowing with the praise, but then the feeling disappears with a jolt. Her senses are flooded, her body aches, and there is a sharp pain in her chest. She's lying on something hard and gritty, and she tries to open her eyes, but it feels like the hardest thing in the world. She can't move, her limbs are frozen, her muscles tensed, her teeth gritted together. She has never known anything like it.

Through the pain, it feels as though she is taking her first breath of fresh air for an eternity. Her head is clear, not cloudy; full, not empty. She can see faces, panicked faces, faces full of concern. She knows these people. She adores these people. She almost feels like she could reach out and touch them. She tries to raise her hand, but she cannot. Blue eyes gaze at her, wet with tears, and she feels like she's home. For one solitary moment she is aware of everything. For one solitary moment, she is no longer Clara Dewhurst.

"Nobody touch her! Tom, get away!" Dumbledore's voice booms over the shouts and screams surrounding her.

She opens her eyes, and the world is sideways. A pair of boots appear in front of her, and soon Dumbledore is on his knees before her, his lined face paler than she has ever seen it. His blue eyes are not sparkling with their usual merriment. They are icy, sharp, and she feels as though she is being x-rayed.

"What happened?"

"I don't know..."

"Can you remember anything?"

She takes a breath and looks down, noticing the long trail of blood on her forearm. The cuts smart, but the feeling is deadened by the heaviness of her mind. She tries to piece things together but it's tough. It's as though a dense fog has fallen all around her, and try as she might, she cannot see through it. Her eyes are focused on her arm, looking, but not seeing. Something sparkles at her and she blinks. Into her mind bursts the memory of a gritty floor, of scratches and cuts and desperation as she tried to reach out to...who, she cannot recall.

"The glass," she whispers. "I remember the glass."

"And your name?"

She hesitates. "Clara. Clara Dewhurst."

Dumbledore lets out the smallest of sighs, and then takes her hand in his, pulling her into a sitting position. "You need to go to the hospital wing," he says.

Clara nods, but even the small movement sends pain shooting through her. Her hand flies to her chest, resting over her heart, which feels shrivelled and defeated beneath her ribcage. Breathing hurts, and she wishes she could do without oxygen. She raises her eyes to meet Dumbledore's.

"Don't tell the Ministry," she whispers. "Please."

Dumbledore nods, and Clara knows that they are on the same page.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **Er...hi. It's been a while. Hope you're well. Stuff happened and as a result, this fic decidedly _didn't_ happen. Long story, but shtuff happens and that's that. I have no idea when the next chapter will be up, but I do know that I _will_ finish this, if it's the last thing I do. I like the ending (which I've already written) too much to just give up due to a difficult middle. Anyway, hope you like this.

* * *

**Blank Canvas**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

"It's all very bizarre," Tom says, the next morning in the hospital wing.

Clara nods, and takes another bite of the toast that he has brought her from the Great Hall, careful not to let any crumbs drop onto the bedsheets.

"I mean, you sort of disappeared, but you were still half there, like a...ghost or something."

Clara chews on her toast but doesn't reply. She doesn't have an explanation any more than Tom does, and part of her doesn't want to know what happened to her in that Transfiguration lesson. Her aching chest, the cuts on her arms and the nasty bruise on her cheekbone all point to the same thing - whatever it was, it was bad, and she has no desire to experience it again.

But, she can still recall that feeling, the feeling of fullness, in her heart, in her head, and all around. For one small iota of time, she knew exactly who she was. Now however, her head feels dense and empty at the same time. Everything processes slowly because everything is unfamiliar.

Tom is the only real constant in her life. He is the only real source of reassurance she has.

"Tom," she says quietly, after a long silence. He looks up from his hands, his eyes staring intensely into her own. She tries to articulate her thoughts but she can't structure them, not in her head, nor into a sentence. She shakes her head and Tom looks down again, releasing her from his gaze. Breathing seems suddenly easier and her thoughts fall into place a little more, though not completely.

Everything feels just out of reach. Like a carrot being dangled on a stick before her. Whenever she manages to get close, it's tugged a little further away. Her fists are balled in frustration and before she knows what's happening, there is a crash as the silver tray that carried her breakfast is sent flying off of her lap with one involuntary swipe of her hand.

Tom jumps up as the matron rushes over, demanding to know what all the fuss is about. With a wave of Tom's wand, the crockery repairs itself, and it all zooms neatly into place on Clara's bedside cabinet.

"_Really_, you'll wake the other patients!" the matron says, her hands resting on her hips.

Clara turns her head to glance at the girl three beds over, her face still, her eyes open and glassy. She has not moved an inch for weeks. She then looks back over to the matron, who sighs, taking her point.

"You can't just throw a tantrum whenever you like. I know it's not _nice _being stuck in here but you have to stay here until you're better. The less fuss you cause, the sooner you can get back to your own common room."

Clara is on the verge of throwing out a sulky remark, when Tom speaks first.

"Sorry," he says, in his most earnest tone. "But you know her..._condition_. I'm sure I'd be throwing my breakfast around if I were in her boat."

The matron smiles fondly at Tom and then at Clara. "I know it's hard dear, but there's nothing you can do. Just move on as best you can."

Clara says nothing. She doesn't want to hear empty words. Nor does she want to face the fact that nothing she does is _understandable_ until Tom tells the matron that he'd do it too. She dislikes the idea of there being one rule for him and one rule for her. She'd have thought that after everything she's been through she'd be excused a little outburst. But no. _Tom_ can have an outburst, but she can't. Tom, the poor orphan whose mother died giving birth to him, can do whatever he likes. Clara, on the other hand, the girl who doesn't even know her own _name_, who may very well have family out there waiting for her to come home so they can _love her_, who has spent most of her remembered life in a hospital ward, no, she can't so much as breathe out of turn. Unless, of course, _Tom_ says it's okay.

The matron bustles back to her office and Tom takes his seat next to Clara's bedside once more.

"What was that all about?"

Clara stares determinedly at the blank wall before her.

"You can tell me," he says softly. When she doesn't acknowledge him, he reaches out a hand to her arm, but the second his fingertips touch her skin she pulls away.

"What have _I_ done?" he demands, his voice rising a little.

"Go away," she whispers. "Leave me alone."

Tom stands abruptly, his chair skidding on the tiled floor with a nasty screech.

"If that's what you want, then so be it." He stalks from the hospital wing, and soon the sound of his footsteps disappear into the distance.

Clara punches her pillows into shape and then lays down, her back to the doorway. She pulls her blankets up tight under her chin, and soon enough she falls into a restless, uneasy sleep.

When she opens her eyes, she is not sure what time of day it is. The dull grey sky outside the window gives her no clues, and above the hammering of the rain against the glass, she can hear a small commotion behind her.

"Albus we can't carry on like this. Has the Headmaster been informed?"

"He's on his way, he's just talking to the boy's parents."

"But how can we keep the school open? Surely another attack means that -"

"That, Galatea, is for the Headmaster to decide. The mandrake solution will be ready next month and then Mr Parks and the other victims will be back to normal."

Clara, trying to breathe as quietly as she can, resists the urge to roll over and watch the scene unfold. She hears the matron fussing, while Dumbledore talks quietly to Professor Merrythought, and eventually, the quick sharp clicks of Professor Dippet's shoes announce his arrival in the hospital wing.

"The boy's parents will be here within the hour. Albus, we need to speak with the governors immediately."

"Very well headmaster."

As they leave, Clara rolls over in time to see the curtains being drawn sharply around Parks' bed. Her eyes follow Dumbledore as he walks down the corridor, and, as he turns to take the stairs up to the next floor, his eyes meet hers. He holds her gaze for a moment, before returning his full attention to Dippet.

Clara's insides squirm. She doesn't know what that look was about, nor does she _want_ to know.

She just wishes Tom were here.

* * *

Dumbledore brings her a large box of toffees from Honeyduke's. It's the only gift she's ever had, and this realisation causes a searing pain in her heart. Somewhere, she'll have experienced birthdays and Christmases. Somewhere, someone is missing her. She hopes.

"Don't hold back on my account," he says cheerfully, "tuck in."

Clara doesn't need to be told a second time, and so she opens the box hurriedly and unwraps the bright colourful foil from one of the toffees. Dumbledore helps himself to one and they sit there in silence for a short while, topping up their sugar levels. Eventually, Dumbledore swallows the last of his toffee, and fixes Clara with a penetrating stare, his hands clasped in his lap.

"Now," he says. "We need to talk about what happened."

Clara swallows her toffee with a large gulp and meets his gaze. She doesn't like this conversation, doesn't like it at all.

"Before we go any further, I want to assure you that the Ministry have not been, and _will not be_ informed. That, I promise you."

Clara nods, and wishes she could think of something to say. But no. Her head is empty. She hates it, more than anything, more than the cuts on her arms and the pain in her chest, she hates that she cannot think.

"Do you know what happened to me?" she asks.

Dumbledore sighs. "My guess is as good as yours," he tells her. "But what I do know is this: yesterday, you had the same injuries inflicted upon as you had the day you arrived. I have _some_ theories. Wild ones, but nothing I'll worry you with right now."

Clara frowns. "Because _that's_ not worrying in itself..."

Dumbledore chuckles. "What I mean to say, is that I don't want to cause panic where unnecessary. Like I say, my theories are wild and based on the minuscule evidence we have. Apart from that, they are balancing somewhere between the highly improbable and completely impossible. I suggest that you try to continue here as best you can, and just hope that this doesn't happen again." He gestures towards the hospital bed and Clara looks down at her blankets.

"So there's something wrong with me," she says grimly. "Deeply wrong."

"That depends entirely on your definition of _deeply wrong,_" Dumbledore says kindly. "I say it's deeply wrong that a young woman, such as yourself, should have already suffered so much trauma and upset in her life. I do not, for one second, think there is anything deeply wrong with _you_, as a person."

This makes Clara feel a little better, and she reaches forward for another toffee.

"Where's Tom?" Dumbledore asks politely. "I'd thought he'd be here, by your side...seeing as he's your friend."

Clara chews on her lip. She doesn't want to tell him, because she knows he'll be pleased, but she doesn't want him to think it's Tom's doing that he's not here. That wouldn't be fair.

"We fell out," she says quietly. "I told him to go away."

"Ah, even the best of friends have disagreements," Dumbledore says kindly. "And the worst."

Clara ignores him. They've been through this before and he won't change her mind any more now than he did before.

"I'd best be on my way, anyhow," he continues after the silence. "Those Switching Spell essays won't mark themselves!" He gets to his feet and smiles down at her. "Rest up today, and I'll have a word with Matron and see if we can have you back in classes on Monday."

Clara brightens at this. She's sick to death of being in here, surrounded by stony students. It makes her skin tingle unpleasantly, and feels almost as if she's staying in a mortuary.

"Thank you, Professor," she says quietly. "And thank you for the toffees."

"Any time, my dear, any time." Dumbledore departs, and Clara finds that she soon misses his company. The other patients aren't half as good at making conversation.

* * *

Despite her terrible behaviour, Tom returns to her that evening with a tray piled high with food.

"Eat," he says. "We'll talk when you're finished. You need to keep your strength up."

Clara obeys, and once she has gotten through her last mouthful of cheesecake, she leans back onto her pillows as Tom vanishes the tray with a swish of his wand. They sit in silence, while Clara contemplates what she could say to him, and how she can make up for being so awful to him.

"I'm sorry." It's Tom who speaks first, and Clara frowns, whipping her head round to stare at him.

"What?"

"I should have been more patient, you're in such a terrible state and you're bound to be upset. It was wrong of me to walk away when you needed me."

"I was horrible to you," Clara whispers. "I was the one who told you to go away."

"Yes, but you're also the one who's suffering from the after effects of dark magic. One has to allow a little leniency."

Clara's hand moves absent-mindedly towards her chest, which is still painful, even after all the potions she's been taking.

"We have to stick together," Tom says. He reaches out a hand to her and she doesn't move away this time. "We have to, because the world isn't made for people like us. It's made for people with families, and money, and all those things that we _don't_ have."

"We have brains," Clara mumbles. "That has to count for something."

Tom nods, his eyes fixed on hers. "And you know what they say, don't you Clara?"

"What?"

"Two heads are better than one."

Clara nods, knowing that he's quite right.

"Together?" he says.

"Together."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **The first fruit of my 'epic update weekend'. I'm getting closer and closer to the parts that I've already got written for this so hopefully updates won't be too sporadic from hereon out. In shameless plug land, I've ventured into the Potterwho world, in which Hermione gallivants with Eleven and there are japes and tight spots and one or two brief visits to heart wrench city. It's called Living Again. In case you were interested. And it'll be getting updated this evening with any luck. :) Anyway, hope you enjoy this installment. Let me know what you think!

* * *

**Blank Canvas**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

Whispers follow her, which isn't unusual, but this time, not even Clara knows the truth of what happened. She cannot contradict the rumours because she has no fact to offer up in exchange. It's infuriating to say the least. The only plus side is that Tom stays with her, almost constantly, sending death glares to anyone who dare whisper behind their hands. The teachers, all except Dumbledore, naturally, tip toe around her, as though unsure as to whether she's about to have another _episode_, or a _turn_.

At breakfast, a large brown owl drops a letter on top of Clara's toast. She slides her finger under the wax seal and opens it.

_Clara,_

_Please come to my office at three o'clock this afternoon. Nothing to worry about, just a little chat over a pot of tea. _

_Headmaster Dippet. _

"He'll probably just want to know how you're feeling after the..." Tom trails off for a moment, frowning into his cornflakes. "...incident."

"Reading my post over my shoulder, are we?" Clara says sternly. He has the good grace to blush a little.

"I was just curious as to who it was from. I mean, _you_ receiving a letter, that's even more curious than _me_ receiving a letter."

Clara frowns. "All right, you don't have to rub it in."

"I'm sorry, I just -"

"And may I _remind you_ that my family might still be out there. They might be looking for me."

"May I remind _you_ that my father is still alive and wants _nothing _to do with me," Tom hisses. Clara's shoulders slacken with shame. She has no right to have a tragedy contest with Tom, because as it stands they're both in the same rubbish boat. None of it makes any difference however, because their situation is what it is, and all they can do is make the best of it.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly.

"Me too," he replies. His hand covers her own, his long fingers curling around her palm. He offers the most gentle of squeezes, and she returns the gesture, her toast now cold.

* * *

"Ah, Clara, lovely of you to come, sit down, sit down!" Dippet draws up a small squidgy armchair with his wand and Clara takes a seat. A cup and saucer hover towards her and settle on the table with a small rattle of fine china. She stirs in some milk while Dippet fusses over shortbread and eventually, he is settled in his chair, taking a long sip of his tea. Clara echoes his action, and the hot liquid burns her tongue, just enough to make her fingers clench the handle a little tighter, but not so much that Dippet notices.

"So," he begins, not meeting Clara's eye. He straightens rolls of parchment on his desk, places his quill in his inkwell, and brushes some shortbread crumbs onto the floor. "How are you?"

"Fine," Clara answers blankly. In truth, her chest still sears with pain if she laughs (which thankfully isn't often at all) or if she coughs or sneezes, and the skin of her forearm is still a little raw, despite the matron's best efforts. Really though, Clara cannot complain. And Clara knows that she _must not_ complain if she wants to stay out of St Mungo's.

She doesn't trust them there.

She doesn't trust anyone.

"And you haven't had any...repetitions of what happened? Or any close calls?"

"None whatsoever," she answers.

Dippet nods and takes a sip of his tea. He hums thoughtfully, his gaze resting on something just behind Clara. She picks up her cup and drinks quickly. She doesn't like being looked through. If Dippet's going to pull her out of Charms, he should at least have the good grace to look her in the eye.

"I've taken the liberty of calling in someone from St Mungo's. He just wants to ask you a few questions, just for your medical records and the like. It was a very serious..." Dippet frowns, and takes another sip of his tea. Clara's skin prickles. Dippet is _nervous_. "...accident."

"Right," Clara replies, shifting in her seat. She puts down her cup and saucer and places her hands in her lap.

"Jenkins!" Dippet calls. Clara turns in her seat as the door to the office opens, and in walks a man in a plain set of robes, his wand in one hand, and a large black briefcase in the other. "Take a seat, Jenkins, take a seat." Dippet draws up a hard backed chair for the new arrival, who sets his briefcase on the desk.

Clara frowns at him, something about him familiar. His dark hair doesn't suit his freckled complexion, and his heavy brow seems entirely over-exaggerated.

"Can you remember anything from your incident?" His thick Scottish accent throws Clara off her guard for a moment, and she blinks. It's _not_ the voice she was expecting from that mouth.

"I know you..." Clara says softly. "I'm sure I do."

"No no," he says, "Quite mistaken. Now, do you remember _anything_ from your accident?"

"The glass," Clara says vaguely. "The glass and the grit." She closes her eyes, trying to transport herself back to that one moment, that moment that had been everything and nothing all at once. She remembers bright lights, and she can vaguely see the outline of a man. She squeezes her eyes tighter, forcing herself to remember, and then she hears a gruff shout and her eyes snap open.

Jenkins and Dippet are watching her closely.

"I know his name," she says breathlessly. "The man."

"What man?" Jenkins demands, clicking his fingers. His briefcase opens, and a quill floats out, along with a fresh roll of parchment, which unfurls itself on the desk, the quill poised above it, ready to take notes.

"The man who did this," Clara says, gesturing towards her heart, which is pounding so fast that it is aching under the strain of it all.

"Tell us everything," Jenkins says. "_Everything_."

* * *

"How was it?" Tom asks, when she finds him in the corridor on the way to Transfiguration.

"Fine," Clara replies. "Did I miss much in Charms?"

"Just going over _Cheering Charms_ for the fiftieth time," Tom says with a sigh. "I don't know why I bother with that lesson."

"It's very _useful_," Clara says tartly. "It has its roots in old magic, in the very basis of our world."

Tom rolls his eyes. "What did Dippet want anyway?"

Clara blinks. "Just wanted to know how I'm feeling."

"Is that it?"

Clara shrugs. "Yeah."

"You were gone for ages. Thought you'd have wanted to get out of there as soon as possible."

"It was ten minutes or so...not _ages_."

"You were gone for at least an hour," Tom says. "Unless you skipped the rest of Charms, and I can't say I'd blame you -"

"I _didn't_ skip Charms, I came straight here."

"So what were you _doing_ for an hour?" Tom asks exasperatedly. "It can't have been _that_ good a pot of tea, surely?"

Clara racks her brain, but it doesn't cooperate. She can't provide Tom with an answer, because she doesn't know herself. All she can recall is a brief exchange between herself and Dippet, and then...well, and then she was here.

"I don't know," she says softly.

Tom opens his mouth, ready to speak, but at that moment, Dumbledore pops his head out of the Transfiguration classroom.

"Good afternoon, fifth years."

They file past him with the rest of the class and take their seats. Tom grabs Clara's wrist and pulls her towards the back. Normally, she would argue, because she loves Transfiguration lessons and wants to get the best seat, but on this occasion, she relents. She's not feeling particularly well and she wonders whether Dippet's tea was some foreign concoction that she's not entirely used to, or whether perhaps it's just a little hot in the classroom.

The lesson flies by in a flurry of demonstrations and practice sessions, and Clara bumbles her way through them, her eyelids growing heavy. She would give anything to be lying in her four poster right now, curled up under the blankets, ready to drift off into dreamland.

"Clara?"

She starts at the sound of her name.

"Professor?"

"I asked you a question," Dumbledore says delicately. "Are you feeling all right?"

Clara ignores the whispers that flit around the classroom, and Dumbledore raises a hand, silencing her classmates.

"I'm fine," Clara says. "Just a little..."

"Sir, please, she has tea with Professor Dippet and I think she might have eaten something funny or..." Tom stops talking, and Dumbledore switches his piercing look from Clara onto Tom.

"I'm fine," she says, but even as the words come out of her mouth, she knows she is lying.

Dumbledore approaches, and squats down in front of Clara's desk, peering into her eyes. "Look at me," he says quietly. Clara follows orders, and after a moment, Dumbledore stands up.

"A hearty dinner and a good night's sleep is in order I think!" Dumbledore says warmly. "And perhaps it's best if you all head down to dinner now."

There is a scraping of chairs and no one questions the abrupt ending to their lesson, although Clara can feel the stares of the other students pierce her like needle points. The whispers start up again as they exit, but Clara is still in her seat, her quill in her hand. She looks down at her notes, only to find that there aren't any; there's just a splodge of green ink that's been growing larger with every _drip drip drip_ from her stationary quill.

"Tom, make sure she eats, then get her back to the dormitory. She needs rest." Dumbledore is pulling on his jacket, which today is a vivid emerald, the collar embroidered with purple swirls.

"Yes sir," Tom says. "Of course sir."

"I am trusting you this once, Tom," Dumbledore says firmly. "Do _not _let me down."

Tom says nothing, and Clara looks up. Dumbledore is staring hard at Tom, who is completely still in his seat.

"Yes sir."

Dumbledore nods and sweeps towards the door, and Clara can feel the classroom crackle with energy.

"Sir!" Tom calls after him. Dumbledore pauses by the door and turns around. "D'you think Professor Dippet -"

"_Dinner_," Dumbledore says firmly."And then bed."

With that, he is gone, and eventually, Clara's brain kicks into gear. She screws the lid back on her inkwell, rolls up her splattered parchment and puts all of her belongings into her bag.

"I think I might just go straight to bed," Clara says, swallowing down a yawn. "I'm really - "

"_No_," Tom says sharply. "You heard Dumbledore."

"Since when did _you_ pay any attention to Dumbledore?" Clara retorts?

"Just this once," Tom says. "Just this once, because...because of you."

Clara turns to face him, and she can see worry written all over his face. He reaches out a hand and his fingers graze against her cheek. His touch is soothing, and she closes her eyes, ready to nod off right here at her desk, but soon, the contact is broken, and she opens her eyes.

"Dinner. _Please_."

* * *

Tom is quiet, which isn't helpful. Talking keeps her feeling awake, keeps her feeling more like herself, but Tom eats his dinner in silence, while Clara picks at her roast chicken unenthusiastically. She glances over to the staff table, to see what kind of mood Dumbledore is in, but his chair is empty.

So is Dippet's.

She elbows Tom in the ribs and nods towards the staff table. He casts a glance in its direction then returns his attention to his shepherd's pie.

"I know," he says. "I don't imagine their conversation will be a short one."

"_What_ conversation? I don't _understand_ what's going on."

"I'll tell you in the morning," Tom says. "When you're feeling better."

"I'm feeling _fine_," Clara snaps, slamming her fork down on the table. "And I don't _appreciate _being treated like an idiot."

"It'll upset you. And it'll be obvious to you in the morning when the after effects have worn off."

"What _after effects_?" Clara demands. "What are you even -"

There is a great rumble, and the entire castle shakes ominously. Plates rattle on the tables, the pumpkin juice is unsettled in its goblets, and the clatter of knives and forks ceases instantly. Everyone is staring at the ceiling, their mouths ajar. A third year Hufflepuff still has a strand of spaghetti hanging from his mouth.

"As you were," Professor Merrythought calls. The great hall is so silent that even her croaky little voice can be heard by all. Slowly, normality resumes. Chatter returns to its normal level although there is a buzz of scandal hovering in the air.

Clara turns to Tom, who is eating his shepherd's pie, his limbs stiff and moving like clockwork.

"What's going on?"

"Finish your dinner," Tom says. "And then bed."

Clara doesn't argue this time, for she knows she will achieve nothing. Even through her tiredness, however, she is sure she can feel the castle trembling.


End file.
